The Trespass
by Random-Battlecry
Summary: One doesn’t become a pundit without paying some attention to the impulses of the human race. A young Holmes helps out an old friend. One shot.


**A/N: One-shot. Its been a very long time since I actually read any Conan Doyle, as a matter of fact the last thing I read was the Holmes "spoof" novel where he got broken of his cocaine habit, or something like that... and that was at least four years ago. So this is all going according to memory, character-wise, and if you'd like to let me know how I did, I'd love that. This also changed directions abruptly about halfway through, originally it was going to be much darker. I think. I'm not sure. This was all totally spur of the moment. Thanks a lot, Chat. Your fault.**

**The Trespass**

It was early morning, perhaps half past eight, when I stood outside on the front stoop of the ancient, redbrick building that housed a certain man of my acquaintance who's assistance was sorely needed; the details would have taken far too long to go into, but when I had called on him the evening before, he had agreed to do his best in my behalf. He had taken some convincing, it is true, but such convincing had not been an onerous task. We were well acquainted, we were, and had been for some time now; I suppose it would not be amiss for me to admit that I am of no small consequence to him, and he to me. Just how that state of affairs came about would be difficult to describe without some embarrassment to us both. A long and involved, not to say tumultous, friendship such as ours is not without its ups and downs; it takes only a reference to the prostitute outside the Anglican church to get him incensed, and a deliberate hint from him that my cooking is not up to its usual standards will always set me off in the most decided manner. Shared memories, you see, are the quickest way to anger an erstwhile comrade in arms.

Still, it had been some time since we had seen each other, until last night. Upon coming to his flat at that time, I'd stood outside the door for quite some time before I'd gathered the courage to knock upon the door. Would he recall me, after these nigh on four years? And should he remember me, would the memories hold enough weight with him to cause him to pay any regard to my request for help?

I needn't have worried; Holmes had always been a gentleman. Well— perhaps not always. I smiled in the weak morning sun. He had been pleased to see me, a rare smile breaking in his eyes before it was echoed on his lips, and he had invited me in with enthusiasm. Nearly an hour of reminiscing had passed before he even allowed me to get to my purpose for being there.

"I would deduce," he denounced in that declamatory manner that he has honed well over the years, "that you are here with a request for my assistance. No one ever comes to see me these days, without they are to ask for help. It is plain on your face, my dear, that there are matters of import rushing through your brain. I suppose there is a man involved?"

I had given him a crooked smile. "We have known each other too well, it seems, and you know how incapable I am of changing certain of my ways."

"No more incapable than I," he declared gallantly, and gave me a short bow before settling himself on the seat next to me. He had reclined, and relaxed, and looked more peaceful than I remembered him ever looking. There is something ill-at-ease about Holmes even while he is asleep, as I know well. His mouth is nervous, his fingers always at play on the arm of whatever chair he is seated in; both his nose and his ears protrude defiantly as though they had some definite but as yet undisclosed purpose which they intend to pursue with all possible haste. He is young yet, I suppose, though the length of time I have known him tends to make me forget that; not more than thirty. Experience begins to etch thoughtful lines on his face, his features become more clearly defined. When he favors you with a glance, he is a man to inspire the utmost confidence, and I confided in him as fully as I dared.

He had listened to my narrative gravely, plucking at the skin on his jaw with narrow, expressive fingertips. He did not interrupt me to ask questions; for Holmes, the questions come afterwards. If nothing else, he possesses a fantastic respect for the proper procession of facts and events. All things in their time, he has told me so many times in the past; all things in their time.

"And so I have come to you, to beg your indulgence," I concluded, smiling at him, "and ask you to give me the benefit of your infinite wisdom."

He waved a hand at me distractedly. "Hardly infinite," he said. "But I will consider your case most thoroughly. The young man has been gone for some time?"

"Nearly five days. The police have told me repeatedly that, with the evidence of the note, they are not inclined to look for him anymore than they already have. Something about needless expension of manpower. I insisted that Donald was at least as much deserving of assistance from the authorities as anyone else, but there seemed to be a great to-do about some prostitute or other." Holmes had glanced at me quickly as I said it, but I had merely blushed very slightly. It is just a word. "They let me no in no uncertain terms that they had better things with which to occupy their time."

"And the note?"

"The note— if Donald did not write it, then someone wants me to believe that he has left me of his own accord and does not wish to have any further contact with me, for their own purposes. If he did write it—"

Holmes nodded slightly, and with a tenderness that is uncharacteristic of him, placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. "May I ask what— no, perhaps I should not. I am sorry, Anne."

"You may ask if you like," I said, as lightly as I could. "I am quite prepared to tell you anything and everything. I am not sure where Donald and I were going, or if we were going there together, or if we had anything in common at all anymore. I do not know if I love him; I do not know if I have loved him for quite some time. I am quite indifferent to all of it, at this moment, but the truth is that he deserves justice, in some form or another, and I would ask for your help."

Holmes smiled, quietly. "You said 'quite' three times," he said.

"Did I?" I had asked, my eyes fixed on him.

"Such little vagaries of speech, now and then repetitions, are indicative of a mind not well made up to one course of action, or one emotion," he told me.

I smiled, sweetly. "Dear Holmes, I know. That is what I just said."

He looked slightly embarrassed. "Quite."

The evening had gone on, from there, and with the introduction of a decanter took on a luminous glow that had been lacking previously.

"Drink more, Holmes," I urged him, refilling his glass. "You've not had half your former standard." I could say this without fear of contradiction, because I myself remembered fishing a water-logged and cheerfully drunken Holmes out of the duck pond on his college campus. I'd pretended to be a young man in order to sneak onto the campus, and had managed quite well until he pulled me into the pond along with him, soaking my shirt and rather ruining one of the more important parts of my disguise. Watching him swirl the whiskey around in its glass with his eyes half closed brought back some very fond memories, and I had settled closer to him, comfortably.

"It has been far too long, Anne," he said, and yawned. He was very warm, and quite drunk, and slipped a hand under my sleeve to caress the skin of my forearm, his fingers encircling my wrist. I agreed with him that it had, indeed; for him at least, though I didn't point that out. He shrugged out of his jacket in short order, and found a more comfortable position reclining across both of our chairs, his head in my lap. I finished my whiskey and dropped the glass onto the carpet, watching the reflection of the fire dancing in his eyes.

After some time, he had said, "It would appear that your fingers have furtively trespassed under my shirt—"

"And from that, Holmes, what do you deduce?"

"One doesn't become a pundit without paying some attention to the impulses of the human race, Anne."

"Indeed," I had agreed. I would not dare to argue with Holmes when he is referring to himself as a pundit; there is no point.

Now, eight thirty in the morning, it had only been perhaps an hour since I'd left him, still sleeping, curled up on the floor in front of the now-dead fire. I was unsure which would prove to be a bigger mistake: the initial trespass of my fingers on his pale bare skin, or leaving him without his knowledge. Had I woken him up, though, I reasoned, I wouldn't have left at all. I knocked on the door again, louder this time; and at last my efforts were rewarded. Holmes did not keep a butler or a valet; he answered the door himself, apparently only having woken up a short time before. His long lean body was swathed in a dark red dressing gown caught closed with a gilt cord; his pale chest showed underneath it, and beneath the lower hem his legs were equally bare. I had to smile at the tufts of hair that stuck up into the air.

"In," he said curtly, and belied the brusqueness of his tone by assisting me, hands around my waist and reaching, slamming the door with his foot, picking me up, and not setting me down till we reached his drawing room once more. The fire was rekindled and burned cheerfully, giving a light and warmth to the room that hadn't been needed last night, and therefore wasn't missed when it went out around four in the morning. He sat me on the couch, and looked down at me sternly. I smiled up at him.

"I couldn't very well put on the clothes I had last night, now, could I? They were torn."

"I noticed," he said. "Now, Anne, I am not angry."

"You're hardly gruntled, my dear Holmes."

"Gruntled I am not, but nor am I angry with you. I have been thinking about the difficulties you came to me about last night, and I have reached a conclusion that could not be avoided, despite the distractions you did your best to provide." He waved a hand at my indignant protests. "And provided, yes, alright, I will admit. However— Anne— Anne, stop doing that." He retied the catch of the dressing gown with a determined jerk that cinched the fabric tight around his waist, and put his hands on his hips, with the air of a parent talking to a recalcitrant child. "It all comes down to this business of the prostitute, Anne."

"I should slap you for that," I murmured, and stood up. He caught my hands, and smoothed down his hair abstractedly.

"Nonsense. You know perfectly well what I am referring to. This business of the prostitute that you referred to last night, as you put your case to me. You told me that the police were investigating certain aspects of this woman of notoriety. I am, I realize, conversant with the facts of that case. The woman left the business she had a part in, leaving her partners and taking with her a large amount of the profits. She had a male accomplice, and I realize now the name has a certain familiarity." He tipped his head and looked at me quizzically. "You know quite well, then, that your Donald has run off with this woman. I can see it on your face. You have come to me for help with a case that does not exist."

I turned my face downwards, set my chin stubbornly and stared at the floor. There was little I could say, I knew; even should I tell him there was more to it than that, he wouldn't believe me. He remained standing for a moment, then got to his knees in front of me, and turned my face up to his. The change in his expression was remarkable; from anger to this, a look of beseeching that I had never seen in his eyes before.

"I would hope it is not revenge," he said. "I understand that it could be, Anne, and why. You're so very young, my dear, and I hope that you will not let this harm you. Take the pain, my dear, and move on."

I jerked my chin away from his hand, and stared instead at the fire. There was wisdom in what he said; and in the end, perhaps I hadn't been truly lying when I said I wasn't sure how I felt about Donald, even now. There was anger, there, deep in my heart and embedded in my head; but the heat of it could cauterize the wound, and perhaps I would be able to get through it all, and ride this wave of hate out to its end. Not without help, however.

I reached out to him; he did not turn away. Not at first. The course of our friendship has been such as to afford me that small and temporary comfort, but when he pulled away I could see in his eyes that he would not allow a second trespass. Not on his time, and not on his person. I had never yet trespassed on his heart.

"I assure you that the police will be focused as much on your friend Donald as they are on the woman in question," he told me, and smoothed a loose lock of hair back behind my ear. "Let it not be your concern, Anne. Have you somewhere to go?"

I stared at him for a long moment.

"Yes. Yes, I suppose I have somewhere to go."

"I did not mean now," he started as I stood, but his tone was not in earnest and his gaze was cool. I could not sit back down. I headed for the front door, shaking loose my hair from where he had entrapped it, then sighed as I realized that, for everything and for all, I owed him thanks.

When I turned to him, he stood in a favorite posture of his, leaning against the mantel, elbow on it and hands involved in the packing of his pipe, hair under control now, and eyes focused only on the task at hand while behind them his mind whirled along faster than I could comprehend. I had to smile; the only thing that marred this picture of suburban respectability was that the vehemently-drawn catch of his dressing gown had come loose at last, without any assistance from me, and it was quite clear that he was pale all the way down.

"I thank you for the evening's comfort, and the advice, both of them the actions of a true friend," I told him, smiling. "I will not soon forget either."

Holmes looked up at me, smiling that distracted smile as he fumbled the pipe into his mouth. "I should hope not, my dear," he mumbled around the stem, "as both were the result of calculation and study. One does not become a pundit without paying some attention to the impulses of the human race."

"Pundit indeed!" I retorted, and emerged back onto the front stoop, closing the door behind me.

I absolutely loathe it when he's right; unfortunately, that leaves me disgruntled rather a lot of the time.


End file.
